I'm Sorry, Mama
by Kate12
Summary: :*: UPDATED :*: Hi everyone! I added another chapter, quite a long one actually, in this. For newcomers, it's Satine's childhood...as well as someone else's but I won't give it away! Read and PLEASE PLEASE REVIEW! Thanks bunches!
1. Daddy's Home

Title: I'm Sorry, Mama (this may be subject to change)  
  
Summary: I was up late one night battling insomnia and eating sugar cookies and drinking Pepsi and this was the result. I know everyone does childhood stories, but this is my stab at it. (BTW, it's Satine's)  
  
Disclaimer: You know the drill-  
  
Not in the movie = mine  
  
In the movie = not mine  
  
Reviews: Please, please, PLEASE! I'm sacrificing my dignity and begging! I hope you're all happy now!  
  
  
  
Chapter 1  
  
May 13, 1873  
  
~Villeneuve, France  
  
"By God, when I get my hands on that no-good husband of mine, I'll wring  
  
his neck!" Marguerite DuBois cried as she gripped the brawny, tanned arms of her  
  
midwife, Cosette. Her finely trimmed and uniform nails bit into the seemingly  
  
impenetrable layer of skin as another merciless contraction seized her body. She  
  
gnawed on her bottom lip so hard that it tore and the salty blood flooded her  
  
mouth. She wasn't cut out for motherhood.  
  
"Oh Madame DuBois you doin' great...Few mo' pushes and you'll have a fine  
  
lil' baby to flaunt." Marguerite managed a strained smile. She had plenty more  
  
to flaunt without having to go through this unbearable pain. She threw her head  
  
back against the rough pillow on the bed and slammed her eyelids closed, trying  
  
to put herself back in her father's house, with everything she ever wanted.  
  
Goose-down pillows, silken sheets, fine dresses and laces...her reverie was  
  
suddenly and sorrowfully interrupted by another spasm.  
  
But no...she thought as she sobbed and the pain resided. I had to go about with  
  
that idiot, Peter. And now this baby is forcing me into a life I don't want! She  
  
nearly cried at the unfairness of it all.  
  
Peter had been the bad boy...expelled from St. Frances's Academy in Paris and  
  
disowned by his father until he "got his act together", Peter had moved to  
  
Villeneuve to reside with the only relative that would have him, his aging Aunt  
  
Annalisé. Marguerite had taken an instant attraction to him, and against her own  
  
father's wishes had begun running with him. It was only now, a year and a half  
  
later, she realized her mistake.  
  
"Madame DuBois, I do declare your baby is coming now!" Cosette exclaimed.  
  
About bloody time...Marguerite thought.  
  
"Push now, Madame...you gots to push, or dat baby ain't going nowhere."  
  
Marguerite clutched the oak bed railing and braced her body. She would do  
  
anything just to make the pain end.  
  
With the wood splintering underneath her clutches, Marguerite forced all  
  
her body's power into a series of excruciatingly painful abdominal thrusts when  
  
the relief came to her and the pain stopped, she thought joy in itself would  
  
kill her.  
  
"Aw, Madame DuBois, you got youself a fine baby girl!" Cosette held the  
  
tiny writhing figure up. Marguerite felt her face contort. It was disgusting!  
  
Covered in white substance she couldn't place, wrinkled, red, and fuzzyheaded,  
  
it was what her nightmares were made of. Marguerite began to cry. Cosette looked  
  
at the screaming infant and then to it's screaming mother.  
  
"Oh Madame DuBois, don't cry now. I'll clean her all up." Marguerite laid  
  
back as Cosette rushed into the opposite room and placed the baby in the basin,  
  
washing it off. She rubbed her forehead, allowing her fingers to rest below her  
  
blonde hairline. She had never seen a baby so awful looking! She had three  
  
younger siblings and none of them had that ghastly appearance.  
  
Just then, Cosette returned. She had the girl wrapped in a white cotton  
  
blanket. It was contentedly sucking on its fist. The hair was flaming red, like  
  
Peter's, the eyes big as tea saucers and the color of the Mediterranean Sea and  
  
finally facial features were gently formed. Cosette beamed with pride and all  
  
Marguerite could do was to keep from screaming in frustration. What was so  
  
great? Now, thanks to this little brat, she was stuck in marriage to a man who  
  
was nothing but a lousy lush! As tears streamed down her face, Cosette smiled.  
  
"Ah, Madame DuBois is it natural to be emotional. I was after my first. Of  
  
course I had seven more, and the effect wears off. Here." She placed the bundle  
  
in Marguerite's arms. The baby smiled adoringly at its mother and Marguerite's  
  
stomach turned. She never liked babies to hold, just to look at as they sat in  
  
carriages or their mother's lap. Now she would be responsible for this mewling  
  
creature.  
  
"What will you name her?" Cosette asked. Marguerite looked down at the  
  
wiggling thing and grimaced.  
  
"I don't know! I just want to be alone! Please, take her away!" Marguerite  
  
held her arms out and Cosette quickly took the infant.  
  
"But Madame DuBois, you must give the baby a name!" Marguerite raised her  
  
hands.  
  
"I don't care! Name it yourself! I need to relax!" she snapped. Cosette  
  
shrugged and walked away.  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
"I tell you child, your Mama is a strange one." Cosette said to the DuBois  
  
baby as she laid it in a crib. It was a simply wooden crib with cotton sheets  
  
and a small quilt. Madame DuBois had not put much thought into it, and for that  
  
Cosette was sorry. This was a gorgeous baby that was one hundred percent  
  
healthy, and all Marguerite DuBois could think of was herself. Women who Cosette  
  
had midwifed for would have killed to have a baby half as beautiful and healthy.  
  
"She won't even name you, cherié. How peculiar! Well I'll just have to  
  
name you myself!" she leaned down and examined the baby. It watched her with its  
  
singsong eyes as she stroked its head. It certainly had quite a bit of crimson  
  
hair for a newborn. And the hair was soft as satin. Surely, it would fall out,  
  
but the strength of its color and texture were sure to return.  
  
"That's it! Satine! That shall be your first name...and Isabeau shall be  
  
your middle name. Satine Isabeau DuBois...how perfect!" Cosette kissed Satine's  
  
forehead. The baby cooed in excitement, even though it had no idea what was  
  
going on. Cosette scooped Satine up and hurried into Marguerite's room.  
  
"Madame DuBois, I present Satine Isabeau DuBois!" Marguerite opened her  
  
brown eyes and frowned.  
  
"I thought I said to LEAVE ME ALONE!"  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
Peter DuBois was lying face down in an alley beside LaBec's, a bar in the  
  
seedier section of Villeneuve while Marguerite brought Satine into the world.  
  
His red hair was stringed, greasy, and plastered to his head as his jaw drooped  
  
and a hundred obscenities flew from his mouth as the pain began to pound. Gilbert LaBec shook his head and plopped the grimy  
  
garbage can down and placed his hands on the hips of his oily apron.  
  
"'ey, DuBois!" he spat through his yellowed teeth and the toothpick  
  
dangling from in between them. Peter rolled over, his tweed jacket soaking up  
  
the rainwater. His shirt was torn open revealing a bruised chest, a courtesy of  
  
some thugs he'd ripped off in an earlier poker game. LaBec grabbed the lapels of  
  
his and shook him.  
  
"Yoh, DuBois! Word came from your place!" Peter's eyes rolled around but  
  
finally he regained focus.  
  
"Wha is it, LaBec?" he asked, slurring his words. It was only because  
  
LaBec had spoken to so many drunks before that he could understand.  
  
"I say word came from your place! Marguerite had your baby." Peter  
  
squinted, his azure eyes glistening and the tiny red veins were bulging.  
  
"My-my, baby? Oh..." he struggled to stand, with LaBec's help. Peter  
  
drooped his head.  
  
"Is everything all right?" LaBec nodded.  
  
"Far as I heard. Mamie Barthau came on down and said 'twas a girl."  
  
Peter smiled, his perfect white teeth untouched despite his ungodly appearance.  
  
"Well thas great! I gotta get home!"  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
Satine's shrieking protests made Cosette blood run cold. She tried once  
  
more to put the baby back down in the crib, but every time she put the baby down  
  
it began to wail, thus causing Marguerite to moan and curse. Cosette needed to  
  
get home to her own children, but she feared what would happen if she left the  
  
howling child alone with the temperamental Marguerite. So now, she was cradling  
  
Satine and singing "Feré' Jacques".  
  
Just then, the front door of the tiny house flung open and the inebriated  
  
Peter DuBois staggered in.  
  
"Cosette! Mamie Barthau tol' me I got a baby!" he shouted. Cosette rolled  
  
her eyes.  
  
"You sure do, Monsieur DuBois! But don't think for a second you get to  
  
hold her until you clean yourself up!" Peter shrugged and stumbled into the  
  
other room with the wash basin. A few moments later he returned, a tad cleaner  
  
and with a different pair of britches and shirt. Cosette pointed to the chair.  
  
"All right, sit there and hol' your arms out." Peter did as she instructed  
  
and Cosette reluctantly handed the cooing baby into his Neanderthal arms. She  
  
expected to have the same reaction from Peter as Marguerite, and she was oddly  
  
surprised. Peter actually got choked up at the sight of his daughter. His head  
  
bobbed down and he kissed her, showing an unknown kind of compassion Cosette  
  
never imagined Peter had.  
  
"Satine..." he whispered finally. Just then, Marguerite's high-pitched  
  
voice called from the other room.  
  
"Peter! Is that you?" Peter maneuvered Satine in his arms so he could  
  
stand and he made his way into Marguerite's room.  
  
"Marguerite honey, did you see our daughter?" she sneered at his sudden  
  
idiotic doting.  
  
"I shoved her out of my body during a process that took eighteen hours  
  
through an area that is only supposed to expand enough to have the diameter of  
  
half dollar! Yes, Peter, I saw!" she screamed. Peter came to her side and patted  
  
her shoulder.  
  
"Baby, calm down! You're gonna upset her!"  
  
"Oh God forbid!" Marguerite snapped. "You weren't even here! You useless  
  
lush! I hate you! Take that whiny urchin away and don't look at me!" Peter shook  
  
his head.  
  
"Fine, darling."  
  
  
  
~*~  
  
  
  
A few hours later, Marguerite was blissfully asleep, Cosette had left (not  
  
without leaving instructions for Peter), and Peter was left with Satine, who was  
  
too excited to fall asleep. Peter, on the other hand, was pulling into harsh  
  
sobriety and would have paid a king's ransom to get her asleep so he too could  
  
lavish in the same pastime.  
  
"Come on, Satine Isabeau...Daddy's tired, please let me sleep..." he begged. But Satine wailed louder, her balled little fists waving in furious  
  
objection. Peter ran his hand over her head and held her little fists, but she  
  
wasn't contented. Finally he began to hum a tune that his friend Gerald sang at  
  
the bar while he threw darts in every haphazard direction and yelled for another  
  
round.  
  
After a few moments, Satine took an interest in this little tune. The more  
  
he hummed, the softer her cries were. Finally, he began to put words to it, and  
  
in a soft baritone he sang,  
  
You're my love you're my angel  
  
You're the girl of my dreams  
  
I'd like to thank you for waiting patiently  
  
Daddy's home your daddy's home to stay  
  
How I've waited for this moment  
  
To be by your side  
  
Daddy's home your daddy's home to stay  
  
It wasn't on a Sunday (Monday and Tuesday went by)  
  
It wasn't on a Tuesday afternoon (all I could do was cry)  
  
But I made a promise that you treasured  
  
I made it back home to you  
  
How I've waited for this moment  
  
To be by your side  
  
Daddy's home your daddy's home to stay  
  
Daddy's home to stay  
  
I'm not a thousand miles away  
  
Daddy's home to stay  
  
I'm gonna be here come what may  
  
Daddy's home to stay  
  
  
  
And Satine fell asleep on her first night in the world to sound of her  
  
father's voice.  
  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*  
  
~*~*  
  
  
  
Author's Note: I know this is probably the most exhausted type of fan fiction (childhood stories) but like I said, Pepsi and cookies do weird things. Trust me, more is to come and it WILL get better.  
  
~*~HuGz AnD kIsSeS oN lAtEr DaYz~*~  
  
Kate 


	2. Anywhere But Here

Title: "I'm Sorry, Mama", however that maybe subject to change  
  
  
Summary: I was up late one night battling insomnia and high on Pepsi and   
cookies, and this is the result. It is Satine's childhood. WARNING: It's a   
rather dark fan fiction.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: You know the drill-  
  
In the movie = not mine  
  
Not in the movie = mine  
  
  
  
Reviews: Please, please, PLEASE! I'm sacrificing my dignity and begging! I hope   
you are all HAPPY now!  
  
  
  
Chapter 2  
  
  
  
June 21, 1879  
  
~Villeneuve, France  
  
  
  
"Monsieur, would you like to dance?" Satine asked seductively, pulling a   
lacey veil up to the ridge of her nose, revealing only her eyes and eyebrows,   
which she had cocked enticingly. She then made her voice deep.  
  
"But of course, mademoiselle." After the words were out of her mouth she   
couldn't help but burst out giggling. How ridiculous she must've looked! She had   
been bored that morning, so she had taken from her mother's closet an old blue   
gown, a lacey veil, a black satin hat, a scarf, some little jewelry trinkets,   
and some face paint. She had twisted her hair up in some odd little bands. Her   
father would have a fit if he saw that. He loved her hair so much. When she'd   
fall asleep listening to him sing, he'd be playing with her hair.  
  
But she had done it to shadow her mother's debutante photo and thrown the rest   
on, though most of it was far too large, and was now pretending to be a lady,   
like her mother. She admired her mother so, for her beauty and charm...if she   
would just not have those spells.  
  
"Where is my gold and diamond ear bob! Satine!" Marguerite shrieked. Satine   
froze mid-action as she stood before the mirror. She ran her eyes up to the tiny   
charms dangling from her ears. She quickly plucked the ear-bobs from her ears   
and leapt across the room to the doorway, and then into the hallway.   
  
Marguerite was already there with her bony, pale hands on her hips, her blonde   
hair frazzled and flying in every direction. Her green eyes were blood shot and   
grotesque. Satine knew Marguerite had dipped into her pills again. She held out   
her little white hand, which held the ear-bobs, and Marguerite scrunched her   
face.  
  
"Mama, I was playing dress-up and I just borrowed them for a bit..."  
  
"Why didn't you ask me, first! What have I always taught you!" She snatched the   
ear-bobs and slapped Satine's face hard with the other hand. Satine winced.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mama..." she whimpered. Marguerite slid the ear-bobs in and then   
noticed her daughter's appearance.   
  
"What the hell are you doing, trussed up like a little whore? Is that what you'd   
like to be, Satine? By God, you're half way there with a name like that!" she   
cried as she ripped the scarf and hat from Satine. Satine's tears splashed down   
her face, only rendering more vicious slaps from Marguerite.  
  
"Stop blubbering! And take off my gown! You have face paint all over it!" she   
yanked the loosely tied gown from Satine, leaving her only in her tiny   
undergarments. She threw the gown down and curled her long fingers around   
Satine's upper arms.  
  
"You are nothing but trouble! You-," suddenly, Marguerite froze and her color   
drained. She clutched her head and moaned.   
  
"Oh, no, not another...LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!" she wailed as she stumbled into   
her room sobbing. Satine gripped the doorframe to keep from falling and quietly   
listened to her mother cry as her own silent tears fell. Her mother had   
succumbed to another spell, in which she retreated to her room and cried. She   
wouldn't speak to Satine or her father. She said she got bad migraines that felt   
like your head was exploding.  
  
And it's all my fault...she thought as she sat down on her rope bed and rubbed   
her eyes. Marguerite was sick, and needed quiet and little disruptions. Yet   
whatever Satine seemed to do upset Marguerite.   
  
Just the other day, she'd gone downstairs to get a snack and slammed the pantry   
door, thus sending the already delicate Marguerite over the edge. Satine had   
apologized over and over, only to be screamed at and banished to her room. And   
then she had agitated the neighbor's dog and it barked some, making Marguerite's   
migraines come.  
  
"I'll just try to be better." She resolved. She stuck out her stocking toe and   
ran it along the cool wood of the floor. She was hungry as ever, and as if a   
guardian angel was looking down on her, there was a soft knock on the front   
door.   
  
Jumping from her bed to answer it before the knocks became too loud for   
Marguerite, Satine slid halfway down the hallway and swung the door open just as   
the source of the knock raised his fist. It was Philip Pinchot, one of   
Marguerite's friends.  
  
"Oh, hello..." he answered coolly when he saw Satine. She smiled brightly.  
  
"Bonjour, Monsieur Pinchot." He raised a finely shaped eyebrow at Satine, smiled   
eerily, and bent down.  
  
"Little Satine! Well my, my, you've grown into a little lady!" he touched her   
cheek and her skin burned like fire. She smiled sweetly anyway.  
  
"Can I help you, Monsieur?"  
  
"Is your Mama home, cherié?"   
  
Satine nodded. "Yes, but she's asleep right now. And not feeling too good."   
  
Philip chuckled. "Mais oui, our ever volatile Marguerite. Maybe I can change   
that." Satine frowned, about to question him when a franc appeared in his hand.   
Satine's attention was momentarily averted.  
  
"How's about you go to the corner store and get yourself an éclair or two, no?"   
Satine nodded, taking the franc.  
  
"Merci beaucoup!" and she skipped down the road.  
  
~*~  
  
Philip watched from the stoop of the house as Satine pranced happily to the   
corner store. What an attractive little thing. It was funny how little she   
resembled Marguerite and acted like Marguerite. Probably better off anyway.  
  
Oh, that reminds me! He thought as he slid his way into the middle-class   
residence. Times were tough these days, but Peter DuBois had managed to keep   
afloat, barely. He got a steady job at LaBec's as a performer and hustled cards   
when he could. It wasn't exactly a 180-degree turn but it was better then going   
back to his snobbish father and begging for money when the inheritance dried up   
in 1876. Those had been Marguerite's exact words.  
  
As Philip ascended the steps and paused at the landing. There was a small table   
with a few photographs. There was one of Marguerite when she was sixteen (Philip   
imagined that had been the last time she'd left the house), decked out in a   
frilly gown with her thick, straight, blonde hair piled on her head like a   
wasp's nest. The other was of Peter, his lazy grin pasted on his face and his   
coiled hair splayed underneath a hat. The third was of Satine, not too long ago,   
dressed in a simple dress with her own twisty hair knotted at the base of her   
neck. He picked up Satine's picture and studied it, his insides turning queer.   
If only...  
  
"Philip, is that you?" a weak voice asked. He nearly dropped the photo as he   
averted his dark, leering eyes to Marguerite, who was standing in the hallway.   
He placed it coolly back and smiled at her.  
  
"Yes, it is." She smiled wide, her teeth nearly blinding him. For the obscene   
beauty on the outside Marguerite certainly compensated for with her awful   
inside.   
  
"It's about time you got here!" she whispered dreamily as he stopped before her   
and kissed her.  
  
"I had to escape from work early. You wouldn't believe the number of doctors   
needed these days." She smiled and held his hand.  
  
"Shall we retire to the bedroom?"  
  
~*~  
  
Satine polished off her éclair from the time it took to pay for it, walk home,   
and walk in the front door. It was better that way, she supposed as she licked   
her fingers, for if Papa knew she'd eaten a snack already he might not take her   
to the club as a punishment. And the visits to the club were the best. She even   
got to sing! It was so much fun, especially when her father accompanied her on   
his trumpet.  
  
As she clomped up the stairs, she halted and remembered Marguerite was having a   
spell. To quiet herself, she removed her shoes and tiptoed up into her bedroom.   
  
But as she closed the door, she could hear noises from down the hall. Then it   
dawned on her that Philip Pinchot had arrived here and given her the franc for   
the éclair. They must be discussing something. Maybe he talked her out of her   
spell. That would be nice.   
  
Satine had taken notice of the clock when she was out and it was ten minutes   
until three o'clock. She decided if she wanted to be awake to go to the club   
with Papa that night, she better take a nap, so she pulled off her dress and   
wiggled under the covers, ignoring the muffled noises that eventually turned   
into shouts.  
  
~*~  
  
"What do you mean you're out!" Marguerite screamed as Philip buttoned his   
trousers. He stepped back and put his hands up.  
  
"I'm sorry, Marguerite! Dr. Boundreaux put a tighter inventory list for the   
dispensary! If I sneak any out he'll know, and it won't take much to figure out   
who took it!" She jumped up and ran to him, clutched his arms.  
  
"Philip, please! Tell them you need them! Say you get migraines! Philip, I need   
them! By God, I'll die!" He yanked her hands from him and shook his head.  
  
"I can't, it's too god-damned risky! If I get caught, your supply will be cut   
off forever." She pulled away and yanked a robe on.  
  
"Fine! I'll find a real man to get what I need!" she yelled and stormed by.   
Philip caught her by the arm.  
  
"Look, if you do much more, you're liable to overdose! Just wait a few days..."  
  
Her yanking away and spitting on him cut him off.   
  
"Shut up! As if you care if I did or not! Get the hell out of my house before I   
start to scream and the police come!" She flung the bedroom door open. He jerked   
his shirt on and stormed by.  
  
"As if they'd believe a whore junkie over a respected doctor." He snapped.  
  
"Out!" she bawled.  
  
~*~  
  
The brawl in the hall awoke Satine even before Philip's heavy steps thundered   
down the stairs. By the time a disheveled Marguerite entered her room, Satine   
was standing beside her bed.  
  
"Where is my diamond bracelet!" Marguerite demanded incoherently. Satine's eyes   
widened and her eyebrows creased.  
  
"I don't know, Mama...I didn't take it before when I was playing dress up, I   
promise!" Marguerite squinted at Satine.  
  
"You lying leech...you took it...it's here somewhere!" she ran to Satine's oak   
jewelry box and flung the lid off, sending it clattering to the floor. She   
snatched up the handful of small ornaments and examined them as the petrified   
Satine watched.   
  
"Oh, where is it!" she screeched, almost sub-humanly, as she grabbed Satine's   
shoulders. Now sobbing but not caring, Satine shook her head violently.  
  
"Mama, I promise I never took it, I swear! Mama please!" Marguerite thrust   
Satine backward into the wall.  
  
"You are lying! And you won't get away with it!" she pulled Satine by the wrist   
and dragged her roughly over the hardwood floor and out the door, into the   
hallway, where she opened the coat closet. It was a dark, small, constricting   
place, and Satine dreaded retrieving coats from it. Marguerite knew this and in   
one swift motion, she forced Satine inside, slammed the door, and locked it.  
  
~*~  
  
After her heart stopped it's deafening conga routine on her breastbone, Satine   
pressed her palms and her cheek to the door, trying to put her mind in a   
different place. She was extremely frightened of small, dark areas, and this was   
the worst. All was unnaturally quiet behind her, and it was pitch black. Every   
moment her over active imagination created a new monster to leap from the   
shadows and devour her.  
  
Tears began a procession down her face too quick to stifle and too many to wipe   
away. In a desperate attempt to break the silence in the closet and to reason   
with her mother, she began to speak.  
  
"Mama...please...I promise you I didn't take them...but if you let me out, I'll   
help you...Mama, please..." her pleading became hysterical when she received no   
response.   
  
"Mama, please!" she sobbed heavily. "I love you Mama, please let me out! I can   
help!" she slammed her fist on the door pathetically.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mama..."  
  
~*~  
  
"That's all the rehearsal for today, guys. Come back tonight at eight and we'll   
go on!" Peter DuBois instructed the three other members of his quartet.   
  
"Sure thing, boss." Gus said as he packed his guitar away. Peter disassembled   
his trumpet in a few rapid actions and snapped the black case closed. As he set   
his hat on his head and buttoned his jacket, he thought of his little Sa-Teeny,   
as he liked to call her because she was such a short little thing. He hadn't   
taken her to the club this week yet, and most likely the first question out of   
her mouth when he got home would be that. Not that he minded, she was a great   
singer. More talent in her little pinky than he in his entire body. Instead of   
jealousy, he felt a swelling of pride.  
  
"Hey, Antoine, do you mind if I bring Sa-Teeny around tonight?" he leaned over   
the bar to the floor manager. Antoine, a hearty old man who had a soft spot for   
Satine, shrugged his thick shoulders.  
  
"Don't see a problem with it, Peter." Peter smiled and winked an eye.  
  
"Thanks boss." He turned on his heel and strolled out.  
  
Marguerite wouldn't mind if he took Satine out tonight, this he was sure of. She   
was never very worried about Satine. If Peter let the girl smoke cigars and   
drink Cognac, Marguerite wouldn't notice. Part of him was relieved he wouldn't   
have to deal with her, but another part wished she would care. Ever since Satine   
was a baby, Marguerite never held her unless she had to, or played with her, or   
did anything many mothers did.   
  
Why are you thinking about this now? He demanded of himself. She doesn't abuse   
the kid or anything and she pays enough attention. I'm just being picky.  
  
~*~  
  
Sitting on Papa's lap while he sang...playing with Papa's trumpet...singing at   
LaBec's with everyone watching her and smiling...  
  
  
  
These were the places Satine's mind drifted to as she leaned against the closet   
door and pressed her head to her curled up knees. She found if she pressed her   
eyes to the tops of her kneecaps, the tears stopped flowing so if Mama did let   
her out, she wouldn't be angry with her for crying.   
  
On particular memory from a month or so ago was especially consoling. She had   
been in the club with her father, in his dressing room where he was warming up.   
She was wearing his little bow tie on her head and bouncing around. Then she had   
found an old photograph...  
  
  
  
"Daddy, whose this?" she asked, her eyebrows furrowed. Peter stopped the scale,   
laughed at the oddity on Satine's forehead, and looked at the photo.   
  
"Ah, that cherié, is Sarah Bernhardt, an awing actress. She played Zanetto in   
Coppée's Le Passant and the Queen of Spain in Ruy Blas. But that was before you   
were born. I saw her myself. Gorgeous, talented, everything a good actress   
should be." Satine studied the picture with fascination.  
  
"You take that, Sa-Teeny. One day when you're a stage star, you'll look back on   
that and her spirit will help you!" Satine smiled.  
  
"You think I could be a stage actress, Papa?" He laughed and scooped her up.  
  
"Of course...my Sa-Teeny could do anything!"  
  
  
  
Now, she smiled despite her terror. She would be an actress someday, for her   
Papa, and for Sarah Bernhardt. She still had the photo and the bow tie in the   
crook of the wall behind her bed.  
  
Voices downstairs stirred her thoughts and she jumped up, awkwardly at first   
because of the pins and needles in her legs. She pressed her ear to the door,   
straining to hear the source.  
  
"Salut, Marguerite."  
  
"Not NOW Peter!"  
  
"I'm sorry, darling, are you having a spell?"  
  
"YES! Thanks to Satine..."  
  
"Marguerite, she's just a child..."  
  
"And you take her side! Typical."  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
"In the cloak closet."  
  
"What?! Why? She's afraid of it!"  
  
"She stole my bracelet!" but the thumping of Peter's shoes interrupted the last   
line of speech. Satine stifled her cry of relief as the door opened and Peter   
grabbed her up.  
  
"Ah, my little Sa-Teeny!" he pulled her to face him. She had hurriedly wiped the   
tears away and smiled.   
  
"Salut, Papa!"  
  
"What are you doing in there? You're afraid of the dark!" she was about to tell   
him the truth when her eyes ticked to the furious-looking Marguerite at the step   
base. She swallowed.  
  
"Oh, no...I was playing hide and seek with Mama." Peter turned to Marguerite,   
who shrugged, and then to Satine. He hugged her again.  
  
"Well, then next time don't lock yourself in!"  
  
~*~  
  
Dinner was calming and normal. Marguerite picked at her lamb and Satine listened   
adoringly as Peter told comical little stories about the goings-on at the club.   
He also told about the new song he was writing and planned on performing that   
night. This was when he suspected Satine would ask her question. And of course,   
she didn't let him down.  
  
"Papa, can I go to the club with you tonight?" Satine asked during an   
intermission. He took a gulp of milk and nodded, laughing.  
  
"Sure can, Sa-Teeny." She smiled gleefully and giggled. Marguerite winced.  
  
"Satine, please quiet down." Satine sat back and nodded.  
  
"Yes, Mama. Can I sing too, Papa? Will you play your trumpet?"  
  
"Yes, I sure will. And you can later on, that is if you're still awake."   
Satine perked up and smiled widely.  
  
"And tonight, performing in her first debut, is Satine DuBois, often   
compared to the Great Sarah Bernhardt!" Satine flung her arms up and imitated a   
trumpet. But in the process, she knocked over her milk and it spilled   
everywhere. Marguerite jumped up.  
  
"God DAMNIT Satine, I told you to calm down!" Peter got a rag from the   
counter and sopped up the milk.  
  
"It's all right, Marguerite, just relax!" Marguerite turned to him wildly.  
  
"Of course it's all right! It's your precious little Sa-Teeny! She could   
do no wrong! She's so beautiful! She looks just like you! Am I the only capable   
parent around here!" she shouted.  
  
"Hey, calm down, Marguerite, it was an accident!"  
  
"Well I've had enough of these little accidents!" Marguerite grabbed a   
handful of hair on Satine's head and pulled her crying from her seat. She   
dragged her clumsily up the steps and when they reached the landing, instead of   
taking her to her room or the closet, Marguerite pulled Satine into the   
washroom. She placed her in front of the mirror.  
  
"You stupid little brat..." she mumbled as she rummaged through the   
cabinet.  
  
"Mama, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to spill it...it was an accident!" she   
sobbed. Marguerite soon emerged from the cabinet with a pair of shears in her   
hands. Satine's eyes expanded in horror.  
  
"Mama...no..." Marguerite grabbed a tuft of flaming, curly hair and   
viciously cut into it. She slapped the fallen chunk in Satine hand.  
  
"Here you go! Here you go!" she screamed. She repeated the process, Satine   
sobbing, and finally Peter burst in.  
  
"Marguerite, have you lost your mind!" he wrenched the shears from her   
hands and pulled Satine out. Marguerite screamed and threw the basin into the   
mirror, rendering a rain of glass shards. Peter carried the hysterical Satine   
into her room.  
  
"Quiet down, now, Sa-Teeny, quiet." He laid her on her bed and wrapped the   
blankets around her to stop her shivering. He smoothed her chopped chair down.  
  
"I'm sorry...Mama..." Satine whispered with her eyes closed. Peter shook   
his head.  
  
"I'm sorry, baby. Just quiet down. It will be okay, baby..." he kissed her   
forehead and then rose. Satine curled up with a small Porcelain doll. She heard   
Peter enter the bedroom where Marguerite was throwing things, smashing things,   
crying, and screaming obscenities.   
  
"You are sick, Marguerite! You need help!"  
  
"If you don't want to deal with me then leave!"  
  
"Don't tempt me!"  
  
In despair, she began to sing so she wouldn't have to hear it anymore.  
  
  
  
Mama please stop crying, I can't stand the sound   
  
Your pain is painful and it's tearing me down   
  
I hear glasses breaking as I sit up in my bed   
  
I told Papa you didn't mean those nasty things you said  
  
You fight about money, about me  
  
And this I come home to, this is my shelter   
  
Never knowing what love could be, you'll see   
  
I don't want love to destroy me like it did my family  
  
Can we work it out? Can we be a family?   
  
I promise I'll be better, Mama I'll do anything   
  
Can we work it out? Can we be a family?   
  
I promise I'll be better, Papa please don't leave   
  
Papa please stop yelling, I can't stand the sound  
  
Make Mama stop crying, 'cause I need you around   
  
My Mama she loves you, no matter what she says its true   
  
I know that she hurts you, but remember I love you, too   
  
I want to fly away today, fly from the noise, fly away   
  
Don't want to go back to that place, but don't have no choice, no way   
  
Never knowing what love could be, well I've seen   
  
I don't want love to destroy me like it did my family  
  
Can we work it out? Can we be a family?   
  
I promise I'll be better, Mama I'll do anything   
  
Can we work it out? Can we be a family?   
  
I promise I'll be better, Papa please don't leave  
  
Mama will be nicer   
  
I'll be so much better   
  
Oh, I won't spill the milk at dinner   
  
I'll be so much better, I'll do everything right   
  
I'll be your little girl forever   
  
I'll go to sleep at night...  
  
~*~  
  
"Satine, we're leaving!" were the first words she heard as Satine felt her   
body being lifted from her bed. She wiggled a bit and realized it was her father   
carrying her as well as a trunk, and he had his jacket on.  
  
"Where, Papa?" She asked, her heart pounding.  
  
"Anywhere but here." He whispered. She closed her eyes and wrapped her   
arms around his neck as he ran outside into the night chill. No matter that it   
was June, it was still very chilly. As Peter waiting for the carriage to pass,   
Satine opened her eyes and saw Marguerite storming down the stairs after them.   
She hoped Papa moved faster, or she might catch them.  
  
But he did, and before the wailing Marguerite even crossed the threshold,   
he and Satine were long gone down the block.  
  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
~*  
  
  
  
Author's Note: Another chapter, hopefully better than the last. Thanks to those   
who reviewed so far, it was good to hear from you. And just to mention it, I   
forgot to acknowledge that I used:   
  
  
  
"Daddy's Home" by Richard Cliff in Chapter 1  
  
And  
  
"Family Portrait" by Pink in this Chapter  
  
  
  
To be continued soon! ~*~Ciao~*~ Kate 


	3. Street Lamps and Motion Sickness

Title: "I'm Sorry, Mama" (this is subject to change)  
  
  
Summary: I was up late one night battling insomnia and high on Pepsi and   
Cookies, and this is the result. It is Satine's childhood. WARNING: It's a   
rather dark fan fiction.  
  
  
  
Disclaimer: You know the drill-  
  
In the movie = not mine  
  
Not in the movie = mine  
  
  
  
Reviews: Please, please, PLEASE! I'm sacrificing my dignity and begging! I hope you are all HAPPY now!  
  
Chapter 3  
  
June 24, 1879  
~ Etampes, France  
Why aren't I getting sick? I always get sick when I rock back and forth too much...Why aren't I getting sick? Am I dead? Satine wondered as she pulled her knees closer to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She continued rocking, hoping and praying that the familiar unsettling feeling in her stomach would return to confirm that she was in fact still alive and still herself.  
Two days ago had been the best day of her life. And only now did she realize that it had been good to be true. Now, it was all crashing on her like a ton of bricks. But she was more frightened by the fact that she didn't feel grief. She felt numb, and she wasn't sure if maybe the hurt had killed her. Part of her panicked at this thought and the other felt relieved at the prospect.  
  
  
June 21, 1879  
~ Tran Nombré 16 en Route Tours  
"Are you warmer now, Sa-Teeny?" Peter asked as he wrapped his navy, tropical wool jacket around her and pulled her closer. The train was nearly empty and the conductor had not put all the coal into the heater at once, so the chill was abundant. Not only that, but all the jostling of the ride had made her stomach weak.  
"That's better," she replied as she slid her arms into the sleeves and pulled the collar close so that the material tickled her eyelashes and the scent of cedar and whiskey . She wiggled closer under her father's embrace and looked up at him.  
"Where are we going, Papa?" she inquired. Peter had his eyes closed and his head tipped back in the beginning of a nap, but opened them and in a shock of sapphire, looked down to her.  
"Tours, honey." He replied, "It's where your Uncle Colum lives, with his wife, Veronique. Do you remember? They had the dog..." Satine snapped the buttons on the jacket.   
"Oh, yeah." She responded, turning her head and looking out the window. Outside it was pitch black. Even the houses were desolate and dim. It was as if when night came, everyone just surrendered. Except, she noted, a small street light on the corner. It was small, maybe two meters from the ground, the glass was wavy and inconsistent, and the light was dim. But it was still lit. And Satine could definitely identify with that streetlight. No matter how frightened it was of the dark and no matter how much it wanted to surrender, it didn't.   
"Whatcha thinkin', Sa-Teeny?" Peter asked. Satine ran her finger along the cool metal of the window.   
"I'm scared." She spoke softly.   
Peter nodded slowly. "Honestly, me too."  
Satine's eyebrows crunched together. "What's going to happen?"  
"I don't know." He said quickly.  
"If you don't know, why are we going?" Peter pulled Satine up onto his lap so that she faced him. His eyes were dark with sincerity she had only glimpsed once or twice and his jaw was set in a firm manner she had only seen the one time she had cut his hair while he napped.  
"Satine, you've got to be serious with me now. You've got to prove to me you're a big girl." He explained, holding her shoulders.   
"Now, what happened tonight was that I made a realization: your mother is sick. And I've got to do something about it because," he paused, took a breath, and finished, "It might be my fault. Who knows. But first, I have to make sure you're safe. Your mother loves you, baby, I know she does. She was a good woman. But now, you shouldn't be around her. So I'm taking you to Tours, where you'll be safe. Then I'm going to come back, help your mother, and we'll come down to Tours with you. We'll be a family, I promise." Satine chewed the inside of her mouth. That was the only thing she wanted ever since she could remember. She nodded.  
"Okay." He smiled and kissed her forehead.  
"That's my girl. Now get some sleep. This will look better in daylight." And it was last time Satine ever heard her father's voice.  
  
  
June 24, 1879  
~ Etampes, France  
  
The squealing of brakes, popping of tracks, the dreadful screams of passengers, and crunching of metal was what eventually woke Satine up. The shattered glass sprayed in her face and burned like a blowtorch and ripped the delicate skin on her face. She began screaming but couldn't hear Peter. His mouth was moving, but she couldn't hear anything and soon her vision was taken. ~  
Now, with her wounds on her face hot, she gripped the over-sized sleeves of the jacket and gritted her teeth. Why had that conductor fallen asleep! He should have had some coffee or anything, or just had someone else to go in his place. But it didn't matter. It was over. Her Papa was dead, the only person she ever loved. He was gone. He left. And now she was stuck with...  
"No..." she whispered as lava-hot tears streamed from her eyes and the salt of them scorched her wounds. The police officer seated at the desk across the room looked up.  
"Aw, cherié, don't cry. You're Mama's coming for you." Satine leaned her head back on the wood of the bench and took a breath. He said that her Mama loved her, that she was just sick. He was going to help her, make her better. Then they would be a family.  
We may never be a family again, but I can still make her better. I'll make her better...I know I can...   
~*~  
"Yes...yes. That's him!" howled Marguerite as she looked at the bloodied body of Peter, lying on a metal slab. She fell into the arms of the officer next to her, a very attractive man of a little over twenty. She clutched him as her wracking sobs echoed throughout the police station. She was twenty-four, and she was a widow! Black and veils! How would she ever function?  
"Would you like to see your daughter?" the man asked. Marguerite looked up and suspended her feigned sobs.  
"Oh...yes, I suppose she deserves to be identified too...it's so awful! My husband and baby murdered!" she began to sob but the man shook his head.  
"No, by the Grace of God, your daughter is alive. Her injuries are pretty bad, but will heal. She's in the other room." Marguerite glared at him, her puffy eyes and wild hair intensifying the glower.  
"Alive? Well...that's...wonderful."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Author's Note: Let's just remember: I WARNED YOU! But anyway, thanks to all whom reviewed! More to come! 


	4. Leaving

Title: I'm Sorry, Mama (this may be subject to change)  
  
Summary: I was up late one night battling insomnia and eating sugar cookies and drinking Pepsi and this was the result. I know everyone does childhood stories, but this is my stab at it. (BTW, it's Satine's)  
  
Disclaimer: You know the drill-  
Not in the movie = mine  
In the movie = not mine  
  
Reviews: Please, please, PLEASE! I'm sacrificing my dignity and begging! I hope  
You're all happy now!  
  
  
July 8th, 1879  
  
Villeneuve, France  
  
Two weeks, exactly. Two weeks of functioning, yet not. The world moved in a steady pace around her yet she seemed planted firmly in cement. No one noticed, though. She just stood forlornly at the viewing, funeral, and wake in her too-large black frock; her hair pinned loosely behind her ears and her eyes large and hollow. She really looked the part of the orphaned waif. Especially with the angry red slashes in the delicate skin of her face.  
  
Every once and while, a straggler whose eye she happened to catch would come and pat her on the head, reiterating the sorrow they felt. What, do they think I don't know they're sorry? How stupid to say that. No one rejoices in death she thought at the time as they folded their hands over a handkerchief at their sides and moved on to the dramatic Marguerite. Satine and her mother had had little contact since the day in Etampes when she picked her up, and that was probably for the better. Though Satine resolved to fulfill her father's wishes of bettering her mother, she just didn't have the motivation, patience, nor will at the moment to put up with what she was sure would be a long battle.  
  
Now, after all the happenings were over and the attention of the town wasn't on Marguerite, she had reverted to her former self. Days were spent in her room, talking to no one in particular as she drank from the Cognac. Satine used to listen but some of things she said frightened her. Hateful things. Things Satine would soon learn of...  
  
Marguerite's nights were whole different stories. After Satine had been banished to her room after a miniscule meal, the back servants entry would brim with activity as Mr. Pinchot snuck in and up to Marguerite's room. Satine would crawl beneath her bed and sing or tell herself stories to distract herself. Sleep was rare and far between.  
  
It was midday now, and the sun was settling on the horizon, it's last attempts to illuminate Villeneuve were bold, demanding orange rays that caught in the beveled glass of the windows and sprinkled intricate patterns on the shiny wood floor. Satine perched herself on the top of the steps and was idly humming as she poked at a piece of knitting she'd been working on. Ol' Madame Parcel that cleaned their house was nagging her to learn, but since Marguerite expelled the old woman, Satine had given up the rigorous torment and concentrate. It was so unimaginative...knitting was knitting...Now singing, that was something. Or acting, or painting...Anything like that was so graceful, beautiful. But Ol' Madame Parcel had dismissed it as "foolish fiction" and shoved the heavy cloth into Satine's hands.  
  
Now, she missed that old woman and her superstitious ways. It would have  
been company. Better company then Marguerite. It was all day, just Satine and  
her. Satine longed for a person to talk to, even if it was the Devil himself as  
long as he had conversation. She had taken to telling herself stories, great  
ones about knights in white armor and princesses trapped in towers with nowhere  
to go and no one to play with. Each time the prince and princess united in  
different, exciting, courageous sequences.  
  
"Ah to hell with it!" Satine murmured, flinching at the bad word she'd  
said. She'd never said an upset word like that. She'd heard Marguerite and her  
father say things like that, but the absurdity of it coming from her mouth made  
her laugh as she did a quick Hail Mary to save herself. It'd been a year at  
least since she'd sat on the cool, waxed wood of a church pew, and the Hail Mary  
was all she remembered.  
  
Afterwards, she began humming a tune she'd picked up from a local hobo  
playing a cornet. She didn't know the words, but the tune was nice, and she  
became so immersed in it she didn't hear Marguerite's approach.  
  
"For Christ's sake, girl, must you make that ruckus!" she shrieked. Satine  
jumped to her feet, nearly tripping for the pins and needles sensation had set  
in. She smoothed her wrinkled black dress and stepped away from Marguerite's  
looming, skeletal form.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mama." She replied almost mechanically. Marguerite scoffed for  
a moment, her green eyes always alert and piercing. She examined the face of  
Satine, who had it down-turned slightly but was nonetheless watching her. After  
a moment, it seemed an unknown emotion flickered in the emerald depths of her  
eyes and they seemed soft for a moment. Not crude and angry, but of almost  
compassion. Satine blinked.  
  
"Mama...?" the sound of her voice seemed to trigger Marguerite's harshness  
to come back.  
  
"Lord..." she spat, seemingly-Satine didn't know any better-embarrassed to  
be caught at an unintentional weakness in her emotion.  
  
"Must you nag me!" she snapped after a pause. She stomped by and Satine  
stood, watching her descend the steps.  
  
Wishful thinking...she thought as she stood at the top of the steps. She ran her fingers in the crevice of the banister as Marguerite stormed around the downstairs. Just then, the front door knocker reverberated through the house and Marguerite rushed to it. Satine lingered at the top of the steps, still not wanting to have to be patted by another falsely sincere stranger yet curious to see the guest. Marguerite's tall figure blocked the dark one on the threshold, but what he crossed it, Satine saw it was Mr. Pinchot.  
  
"Satine!" Marguerite screeched at last. Satine lifted the lace of her dress and thumped down the stairs, her wool socks slapping the wood with a dull thud, especially as she skipped the last few and landed two steps too far up. She straightened herself as Mr. Pinchot stood-leered might be more accurate-over her.  
  
"Bonjour, Satine. How are you, cherié? Excited about the new arrangement?" His dark, beady eyes were boring into Satine's own so much so her head hurt and her eyes burned. He made her feel nervous when he was around because he always stood so close, and had this look in his eye.  
  
"Satine Isabeau! Answer a gentleman when he speaks!" Marguerite snapped. Satine stiffened.  
  
"Bonjour, Monsieur. Very good. What new 'rangement?" He smiled an eerie smile, and she felt all the hairs on her body stand at attention and a tickly sensation glide it's wicked fingers up her arms and legs, causing her to shiver.  
  
"Well Satine, it so happens..." Marguerite began, but then Mr. Pinchot interrupted her.  
  
"Marguerite, my dear, shan't we go to the den?" He suggested. Marguerite shook her head emphatically.  
  
"Satine's nearly six years old. She's not a baby." She informed him, and then turned her stern face to Satine. "It so happens that Mr. Pinchot and I are betrothed." Her felt her eyes widen at least six inches in diameter. She had a limited grasp of vocabulary, but betrothed she knew. That meant marriage.  
  
"But...what will people think? Papa..." Satine stuttered, the weight still sinking hard and fast on her mind.  
  
"Sweet Jesus, girl, he is dead. Besides, there will be no concern for what people think. We're leaving Villeneuve." Satine felt her heart tightening and a hysterical feeling gripped her. Leave Villeneuve? The only home she'd known. The home she'd shared with Papa.  
  
"No..." she burst out in an explosion that wracked her chest, but then she dissolved in tears.  
  
"What do you mean no? It's not a discussion!" Marguerite's eyes were hot and angry, and as much as Satine swore she wouldn't upset her, she just couldn't hold this in. She cried shamelessly. Mr. Pinchot spoke up.  
  
"Marguerite maybe we should give her some adjustment time..." Marguerite whirled on him.  
  
"No! She's not what's important! In life you have to move on! He's not coming back, ever! Why sit here and rot as a widow!" Satine was wailing and Mr. Pinchot shook his head.  
  
"Marguerite I'm going home for now. I'll be calling on you tomorrow to know you're final decision. Bonjour." Satine listened to this happen and also of the door closing, but she didn't hear Marguerite fly across the floor and give her the hardest back hand in the cheek that she could ever remembered. Satine flew backwards against the couch, her left eye tearing and her face feeling broken.  
  
"You worthless, stupid, idiotic little urchin! My God, you've gone and scared him away! I'm going to die unmarried because of you! I hate you!" She stood and began pacing angrily. "Christ, I wish it was you that died in the crash."  
  
Marguerite had said a great deal of things to Satine that she had hurt her with, but Satine suppressed them because a thousand cruel words was worth nothing compared to the one utterance by her father (She loves you, Sa-Teeny). But this froze her tears. She looked up, to see if Marguerite was just in raged, but she wasn't. She was clear. Concise. She'd meant it.  
  
***  
  
July 9th, 1879  
  
Villeneuve, France  
  
Satine and Marguerite hadn't spoken since the night before, and nothing was needed. Satine stood in her bedroom, dressed in a soft yellow frock with white lace that had belonged to Marguerite. She just stared out the window at the carriage that awaited her and a minimum amount of her possessions. They had been selected by Marguerite and had been deemed "necessary" and thrown into a trunk no bigger than Satine. Most of it was clothing, and a few shoes, shimmies. But she hadn't allowed her to bring anything else except what she could hold on her lap for the duration of the trip to Nice.  
  
As the front door slammed, then creaked open moments later only to slam again, as if it was undecided as to what it wanted to be, open or closed, Satine slide across the room and bent down onto her knees, and ran her fingers along the ridges of the wood floor until they collided with a soft, yet slightly coarse material she'd been safe guarding for two weeks now. She slid it across the floor with a whoosh and pulled it to her chest. It still smelled of cedar and whiskey, like Peter. But the smell was fading. That didn't matter, however, to Satine. She knew the scent by heart, and it would stay with her forever.  
  
After a moment she removed the snapshot from the pocket and the bow tie. She clipped the bow tie low on her neck beneath her frock so Marguerite wouldn't notice and fingered the creases in the snapshot for a moment. She studied the dramatic pursed look on Sarah Bernhardt's face and a familiar prickling in her eyes spread. She quickly put the photo in the pocket of the jacket and wrapped it around her. She closed her eyes for a moment and began to sing  
  
I'll protect myself  
Against the cold lash of tongues and lies  
I'll blend in with the crowd  
I'll disperse into the stream  
I'll fade into the darkness  
I'll turn and walk away  
Remember me for what I was  
As one world breaks in two  
I'll follow my own way  
I'll forge another path  
Remember me for what I was  
Not what I couldn't be  
Remember me for what I was  
And shall never be  
  
Satine swiftly folded the jacket into a small bundle and put it on the top of the clothes in the trunk and snapped the lid shut.   
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Author's Note: I know it took me a LONG time and for that I'm sorry but school began and I had to write for class so...well you know what I mean. But anyway, please review! And there is more to come, I just needed to get into the rhythmn again! Toodles!   
  
I used without ahem permission the song "Leaving" by Anne Clark (SORRY!) 


	5. Trapped

Title: "I'm Sorry Mama"  
  
Summary: This is Satine's childhood. I know a lot of people do that but here's my stab at it!  
  
Disclaimer: Okay, in the movie = not mine. Not in the movie = mine  
  
Reviews: PLEASE! PLEASE!  
  
  
  
July 16th, 1879  
  
Nice, France  
  
"Satine, get up." A sharp voice interrupted her fitful and rare sleep. For a while, yet it seemed like a moment, Satine had been secure in the land between consciousness and unconsciousness, dancing between realities. But as she popped an eye open, the reality came like a harsh backhand. She was crunched up on a ball in the corner of the carriage, her hair discombobulated and her dress wrinkled, and her body aching and sore. She yawned and a hand reached in. "Now, you lazy brat!" was a dismal scold. Even Marguerite was too weary to flood Satine with insults or derogatory statements as she stepped out and felt her knees unclench.  
  
"Here we are!" Philip said cheerily, but his attempt was shot down by  
  
Marguerite's blood chilling stare and Satine's teary gaze. He smiled and took Marguerite into his arms.  
  
"My.sweet. This is our home now! And this is your and little Satine's  
  
homecoming!" Marguerite jerked away.  
  
"Grow up." She stormed by. Satine's palms burned as she held on the pulley of her trunk that the servant handed her. Philip turned to her and smiled his toothy, sickening smile.  
  
"Well, Satine." He paused after he said her name, "this is home. Lot better than the old place, no?" He was leaning in her face, his hot, sour breath assaulting her nose. She looked people in the eye as much as she could, unlike most kids her age, and she did just that to Philip. He had cold, dark eyes. But they seemed gleeful today. As she stared in the dark swirls, she felt the world closing around her and the sudden feeling that she was trapped made her pressed her mouth into a tight smile.  
  
"Yes, much better."  
  
With that one lie, she felt someone walk on her grave.  
  
He put his big hand on her shoulder and held it.  
  
"I'll make sure you're happy, here, and you'll be part of the family."  
  
As he headed into the house, Satine felt this family wasn't one she wanted to be part of.  
  
~*~  
  
".through the bounty of Christ, our Lord, Amen." Philip concluded solemnly as the three of them sat at a rather large and gaudy dining room table. Satine shifted in the ridiculous garment her mother had chosen, for it had netting underneath and it irritated her legs.  
  
"Satine, sit still." Marguerite snapped. Satine rolled her eyes and slammed her knees together, so as they wouldn't rub. She then rubbed her neck. Her mother had twisted and yanked her hair up as well, and put a Queen Elizabeth-esque headdress on it. This caused another glare from Marguerite.  
  
"Can't you for the love of God."Marguerite seethed, but was cut off.  
  
"It was a tough ride, Marguerite." Philip instructed. He then turned to Satine. "And chérie, you ought not to upset your Mama. You have quite I rebellious streak. Are you uncomfortable here?" Marguerite stabbed the lamb  
  
on the plate. Satine shifted ever so slightly and she didn't react. Phew.  
  
"No, monsieur Pinchot." He laughed.  
  
"Well, chérie, you must not. First, stop calling me monsieur Pinchot. "What about Papa?" Satine was sure her complexion rivaled broccoli. Marguerite glared, and Satine was about to agree but she couldn't get her own Papa's face out of her mind.  
  
"I'll call you Father. But not Papa." She stated, the strongest she ever felt.  
  
He seemed to mull it over. "All right. And your mother and I have been contemplating another way to make you feel comfortable. Marguerite?" Satine, brow furrowed, turned to her mother.  
  
Marguerite swallowed a mouthful of meat, took a gulp of wine, and in a simple statement said, "We're changing your name."  
  
"It rained today."  
  
"It's three o'clock."  
  
"We're changing your name."  
  
Satine sputtered, "Excusé moi?"  
  
Marguerite was about to begin a tirade when Philip stepped in.  
  
"To make you more of a family member, we decided that my family name will be your name. Genevieve Francesca Danielle Pinchot." He spoke proudly, his thin chest puffing out. Satine stared blankly.  
  
"But Satine Isabeau is my name. Satine Isabeau DuBois!" she said, her  
  
voice increasingly softer.  
  
"Jesus, that's a whore's name! Your name might as well be Mary Magdalene! Your Father has told you your name! Who do you think you are to question him!" Marguerite couldn't hold it anymore. She jumped up and grabbed Satine's plate and threw it on the floor. Satine threw herself back  
  
against the chair and cowered. Philip ran and restrained his wife.  
  
"Genevieve, you shall go to your room without dinner." He told her as he calmed Marguerite. Satine didn't react until her eyes met her mother's own. With that she jumped down, those eyes burning in her head.  
  
Early July 17th, 1879  
  
Nice, France  
  
The Pinchot residence (Satine was far from calling it home) was massive, and that made for quite a silent night. Thank God for that.  
  
After the episode at dinner, Satine had run straight to her room and curled under the covers, forced herself to sleep. It didn't take much-her small body was begging for it. When she woke, she took in her surroundings and then even surprised herself.  
  
She had thrown the covers from her body, jumped from the bed, stripped her frock off and was bare down her to her underclothes, and then savagely ripped and snapped and tore the holds in her hair until it was loose. She had silently done so, and then commenced to completely and thoroughly trashing her bedroom. After her fit, she had collapsed in tears on the floor.  
  
Now her hair was ripped and knotted around her shoulders, but it was free. She was freezing, but as least she felt. She sat on the window sill, still in her underclothes, and stared outside. Sleep hadn't come. It was afraid, she had decided.  
  
As she stared at the marshy woods behind the house and the rising, orange- red-pink colored shy, she decided she would not remain in this house. Those marshes were inviting her out there, and the urge to go was overwhelming. At Villeneuve there hadn't been marshes like that, only small patches of forest, mostly city.  
  
Lost in reverie, she hadn't heard the lurching of the wooden floors outside her bedroom as an intruder lurked, watching, planning.  
  
Mid-Afternoon July 17th, 1879  
  
Nice, France  
  
"Don't forget a shawl, Mademoiselle Pinchot." A stuff-shirt, bifocal- wearing butler warned Satine as he wrapped a ridiculously fancy shawl around her frock. When she playing in Villeneuve, she had worn an old, slightly tattered shawl. And people had seen her in that. She was almost positive no one would be seeing her in this silk piece.  
  
But she took it anyway, wrapped it around herself tightly, thanked the man, and started out to the marsh. It was a good 50 meters from the back entrance to the edge, and the whole way her steps were echoed with a squish  
  
squidge. Her boots stuck in the mud and were only removed with effort and a  
  
sickening suction sound. When she finally hit the woods, she found it easily avoided by jumping from rock to rock, log to log, or such.  
  
Her spirits seemed to lift as the minutes passed and she strolled through the thick wood. The suffocating feeling that something was sitting on her chest was lifting, and she knew she had found an escape. Marguerite wouldn't be caught dead out here. She wouldn't make it through the muck.  
  
As the image of Marguerite wrestling through this tangle of brush, mud, rocks, logs, and huge tightly packed trees entertained her briefly, she didn't realize until she tripped and fell she had come upon an opening with a pond  
  
inside. She picked her now soiled self up and her eyes caught the reflection. She kneeled mesmerized, at the twinkling water. It was moving, it seemed, and glowing with life, not like a pond on a dreary day. She watched as frogs hopped about, lily pads floating freely about and water bugs doing their dance. She had never seen anything so beautiful.  
  
On impulse, she took the now soiled shawl and ran to the edge. She dipped it in the water and a good lot of the dirt was loosened and removed.  
  
As she sunk it deeper, up to her elbows was wet. She looked about, smiled, and then slipped in.  
  
Her father, a long time ago, at a fishing trip in Etampés, had taught her to swim and as she paddled on her back across the cleansing water with her eyes closed and the fantasy upon her, the memory of the skill flooded back.  
  
How long she had trolled about in the pond was uncertain, for the only reason she ceased was that she heard rustling and footsteps on the other side of the pond. She quickly snapped her head up and looked at the gently wavering brush. It wasn't windy. She had had a visitor.  
  
So as not to loose them, she raced to the shore and despite the bitter cold nipping at her, she followed the hesitant and then quick footfalls.  
  
"Hey!" she called several times, but to no avail. She saw the small retreating back of someone, and as she got closer and she saw them more frequently between bounds between brushes, she recognized the gait to be that of a boy's.  
  
Finally, her lungs hot and her throat dry, she slowed, and soon he was out of sight. She followed slowly after that. Finally, as she came closer to where he'd ducked from sight, she realized there was another opening.  
  
Across the 30 meter stretch of slightly rolling land was a mammoth mansion, much like the Pinchot house. She watched for a long while through the bushes. Looks like we have neighbors.  
  
Late Evening July 17th, 1879  
  
Nice, France  
  
With her mind preoccupied by her new neighbors and Marguerite sequestered in her room with Philip in attendance, Satine's dinner ran smoothly and she voluntarily retired to her room afterward, seating herself on the window sill, thinking about her visitor she had nicknamed Mystérieux. Maybe he's my age. she thought wistfully, resting her chin on her curled knees. The service had fixed her room and supplied her with a small silk night gown. She however has salvaged her old one and though it seemed a bit small, she had it on.  
  
We could play together in the marsh.maybe he's as lonely as me. Though she missed Villeneuve and her father and her old life, the prospect of a new playmate was inviting. And engrossing. So engrossing in fact she didn't hear the door open, or the intruder come in until he was above her.  
  
"Genevieve." Philip said softly, nearly a rasp. She jumped and initially it was fear in her eyes. But she switched it, honing her skills in that area, and smiled her tight "Philip" smile.  
  
"Bon soir, Father." She greeted. He didn't respond, the carnal in his  
  
eyes too obvious. She got up and he put a hand on her shoulder. She froze, her body and mind terrified.  
  
"It is a good evening, my chérie." He whispered, his hands going to her hair and entangling them within it. "And about to improve.Did anyone ever tell you that you have gorgeous hair?"  
  
July 18th, 1879  
  
Nice, France  
  
"Mademoiselle Pinchot, there is no more hot water!" a voice shouted from outside the bedroom door. Satine didn't hear. Eventually, the voice wandered away. She was wrapped up in herself, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms squeezing them, and her head upright, her eyes focused a thousand yards away. Her toes were the only moving limb, underneath her as she sat in the basin, and they only moved to poke about the locks of hair that coated the bottom of the basin. She had cut a good deal of it off and had then filled the basin with water. Now she sat, immodestly, in the basin, not hearing. Not seeing. Not even feeling the cold of the chilled water. She didn't feel her lips even form the words, or her voice put them to music.  
  
It's over, and I'm overwhelmed  
  
I'm emptied out like a dusty shelf  
  
You've buried me, and I'm covered in shame  
  
So clever but I tripped somehow  
  
I never guessed it would be you to knock me down  
  
I am, just a bit, undone  
  
Displaced and burned like fire.  
  
Shame on me this time  
  
I should have known  
  
I must choose  
  
Between suspicion and naïveté  
  
This is what you wanted anyway  
  
To shame me.  
  
I should cry.she thought stoically. He can't take that too, right.?  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Author's Note: Okay, can't say I didn't warn you! It's dark! I hope you got the inference.I don't think I need to spell it out for you.Anyway, I'm sorry it  
  
took sooooooo long but you know, school and all. Please review! Even if you  
  
hate it, review! Open for flames! *cringe* And if you loved it *fingers crossed* definitely review! Ooh yeah, also sorry about the weird formatting.my computer is fritzy! Thanks! -K- Oh yeah, and I kinda melted together two songs, both called "Shame on Me"  
  
The first few lines were by Sister Hazel and the rest were by Face to Face. Sorry! 


	6. Swim Lessons

Title: "I'm Sorry, Mama"  
  
Summary: Simply, it's Satine's childhood. I guess after five chapters, that  
  
should be rather obvious.  
  
Reviews: Any! I am begging for them! Please! It speeds up the process.! Thanks!  
  
Disclaimer: In movie = not mine. Not in the movie = mine.  
  
July 25th, 1879  
  
Nice, France  
  
"Seventh god damned day in a row, girl." Marguerite said to Satine as  
  
they sat at the breakfast table. This was the first day she had actually sat at the table with them. The previous six had been, after long arguments, in her room. But all ended the same.  
  
"I'm sorry, Mama." She croaked. She wiped her mouth with a wet rag as the servant emptied the tin. She had thrown up, and the familiar sour sting was in her mouth.  
  
"You're the color of hay. Your skin is hanging lower than an old hag's. What's wrong with you? You better not be contagious. If I get sick, I'll tan your hide." Marguerite swore as Satine sat before her. She didn't know what  
  
to say.  
  
"Jesus, first you go berserk and chop off all your precious hair and now you can't keep anything down! I swear, any more surprises and it's a sanitarium for you. Mr. Pinchot.I mean your father is going to turn you out!" Satine looked down at the floor and ran her finger along the crack.  
  
"Mais oui, I say zee garl needs sun. Hadn't seen light in days, have you?" Laurie, the head serving lady, explained. Marguerite crossed her arms  
  
and tapped her foot.  
  
"Sounds right. Okay, you're going out. It has been quite depressing having you around." She turned and when she was at the door, she turned, "I  
  
expect you gone when I get back."  
  
~*~  
  
As Satine slowly made her way to the edge of woods, she sighed when she noted how badly she was trembling. It had taken her a good hour to get the muster to leave the house, and then about ten minutes to get the courage to walk out to the woods. Now she was nearly there, her breath was coming it short, hazardous puffs.  
  
She couldn't think of a rational reason for her fright, but a thought  
  
poked at her mind. She hadn't been outside, let alone in these woods or to the pond, since that night. She had hardly spoken since. And hadn't eaten. She thought she would be relieved to be there, but all it did was bring back memories. She still hurt inside, and dreamt of the burning.pain.terror.  
  
"Stop!" she commanded and she halted, shocked to find she was nearly halfway to the pond. Thankfully, he hadn't come back to her room. What had prompted him to come that night was a mystery and after three or four days Satine hoped he wouldn't return. But she knew that was wishful thinking.  
  
The memory of her visitor that day only returned when she was in view  
  
of the pond. That boy.the only child she had seen in weeks. She wasn't sure she wanted to know him anymore. Her misery was consuming her, and the chance that she might spread it to anyone else was probable. Misery was contagious. Marguerite wouldn't be affected, Satine knew, she already had enough.  
  
When she finally saw the pond, the same impulse overcame her. With new immodesty, she undressed down to her shimmy and leapt in. She expected her hair to spread gracefully as it had, but the tiny, ragged cut left did nothing.  
  
When she was fully under, her arms and legs began to frantically and enthusiastically pump so that she swam downward as if some transport to another world lies down there. Soon, though, the pressure increased so her ears popped and the inevitable buoyancy took over. Before she knew it, she was above water again, in the harsh reality.  
  
With that, she began to weep. For the first time in a week, she wept crazily. She had expected the predictable outburst to feel releasing and freeing, but all it did was confirm the horror.  
  
She felt weak suddenly, and swam to shore. She lay on her stomach and howled, sickened with herself, and she began to sing again.  
  
Wish I was too dead to cry  
  
My self affliction fades  
  
Stones to throw at my creator  
  
You don't need to bother, I don't need to be  
  
I'll keep slipping further  
  
But once I hold on, I won't let go until it bleeds  
  
Wish I was too dead to care  
  
If indeed I cared at all  
  
Never had a voice to protest  
  
Wish I had a reason; my flaws are open season  
  
Wish I died instead of lived  
  
You don't need to bother, I don't need to be  
  
I'll keep slipping further  
  
But once I hold on.  
  
"Even though you're miserable, your voice is beautiful." a startling, slightly lisped voice interrupted her. Satine jumped up, her head alert and eyes sharp. Seated on the gravelly sand four meters or so away was a small boy, smaller than her, with dark hair, olive complexion, and walnut-sized brown eyes. He was dressed in older boy's clothes, dark trousers and dark vest with a white collared shirt underneath and a black beret, but he didn't look any older than she.  
  
"Who.what.who are you!" she demanded, her modesty cascading over her as she scooped up her clothes and pulled them on haphazardly. He took off his beret and stood.  
  
"I am Henri Toulouse Lautrec. That's my given name. My Mama calls me Toulouse. You can too." He held out a hand. She stood, dripping wet, and held out her hand.  
  
"My name is Satine. DuBois." How good it felt to say that.  
  
"Pleasure, Satine." She eyed him, and chewed her lip.  
  
"How old are you, Toulouse?"  
  
"Eight." He replied indignantly, as if it was obvious.  
  
"I'm almost six."  
  
"You look older."  
  
"You look younger."  
  
He flushed. She didn't notice just yet.  
  
"I was born too early. Mama says I was too impatient." He explained, slightly embarrassed. Satine felt a pang of guilt.  
  
"I didn't mean."  
  
"That's okay, my Papa says the same thing. I oughta grow more, he says, be more like a boy." Toulouse's eyes filled with sadness. "Just like my painting." Satine cocked her head.  
  
"Painting? You paint?" finally, his face turned bright and he smiled.  
  
"Sure do. Want to see?" she nodded, curiosity filling her. He led her over to a small orifice in the pond that was lined with rocks. Lying on the rocks was numerous small patches of canvas, each with runny colors spread across them. On some were animals, dogs, cats, and sheep, and others were landscapes. One caught her eye. It appeared to be an angel, an angel flying in the clouds.  
  
"That's you." He whispered, noticing how she focused on the one.  
  
"Me?"  
  
"Yes. I saw you last week, swimming, with your long hair and pretty face.you reminded me of an angel. A real pretty one. So I drew you.only up in the clouds 'cause I couldn't figure out where you'd come from." He blushed. "I'll stop."  
  
"They're gorgeous paintings." She told him softly.  
  
"You're pretty gorgeous. What happened to all that hair?" he asked. Satine winced and turned suddenly, finding a proper rock and sitting upon it, scrunching the chopped locks in her fists.  
  
"Accident. How long have you lived in Nice, Toulouse?" she asked, deliberately and not too subtly changing the subject.  
  
"Three years. Really born in Albi. How about you? Where are you even living now?" he folded his tiny hands.  
  
"I was born in Villeneuve, outside Paris. I live over in the Pinchot house, now. On the other side of the woods." She vaguely gestured. He shrugged.  
  
"Oh. I never go past the pond. I'd probably get lost. Then my Papa would." he froze. It was his turn to change the subject. "Is the Pinchot family a relative of yours?"  
  
"Philip Pinchot is my Father."  
  
"You don't call him Papa?"  
  
"He isn't my Papa." She replied sharply.  
  
"And you're Mama?"  
  
"She's there too." He silenced.  
  
"My Mama and Papa live over on the other end of the woods. Papa owns the Winery, and Mama just tends the house."  
  
"No servants?"  
  
"No." Satine shifted. She knew she was holding back, and she felt oddly connected to this boy because he too was holding back.  
  
"What else do you do, besides paint?" she asked. He shrugged his shoulders. "I walk a lot. That's how I got over here. There's a pass over down a bit. Nothing else." He looked at his lap.  
  
"You can't swim?"  
  
He blushed. "No. My Papa taught my brother Raul but said I was too weak." Satine shrugged.  
  
"Well I've been here almost a week, and this is the most exciting it's been. There must be something!"  
  
He shook his head.  
  
"No, not really. Just nature. And now me." She smiled at his odd interjections of humor.  
  
"You have any other friends, Toulouse?"  
  
"Here? No."  
  
"Me either. I think we can help each other out." She took his arm. "First, I'm going to teach you how to swim!"  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Author's Note: A little lighter chapter after a pretty bad one.kinda sets up stuff.Okay, please review! Thanks! -K-  
  
I used "Bother" by Stone Sour, by the way! 


	7. The Bonds that Tie Us

Title: "I'm Sorry, Mama"  
  
Summary: Uh, yeah.it's Satine's childhood.  
  
Disclaimer: In the movie = not mine. Not in the movie = mine.  
  
Reviews: Thanks so much to those who have, and I encourage those who haven't! (  
  
  
  
February 25th, 1880  
  
Nice, France  
  
"Hey, that's no fair!" Toulouse cried as Satine looked down on his unhappy face, his fists on his hips and his lip out in a pout.  
  
"Why not?" she demanded as she climbed down the side of the large unidentified tree she'd retreated to.  
  
"Because I can't find you if you're up there!" he exclaimed, exasperated as she planted her feet on the ground and flattened her hair.  
  
"Toulouse, the game is hide and seek, not hide and find." She told him sweetly. She began strolling back to the clearing. He rolled his eyes and followed.  
  
"You're impossible."  
  
"You just can't take being beaten by a girl." She replied, winking at him. He puffed out his chest.  
  
"Can too. Plus, you didn't beat me."  
  
"Whatever you say."  
  
As they maneuvered through the nearly bare forest, Satine was regretting the decision to leave her shawl in the house. It was winter, on the cusp of spring, and this morning it had been in the mid fifties. But now, it was beginning to fade and feel like thirties. Toulouse noticed her shiver and like a gentlemen he strove to be, took his jacket off and wrapped it around her shoulders.  
  
"Thanks, Toulouse." She said, smiling. In the past six months, they had developed into a daily escape: for both of them. Though Philip had been away much of the time and she jammed her door at night and he never returned, Satine was still on edge. Marguerite hid more and more in her room, quietly. She only came out once and a while and Satine would predict this and make herself scarce. Now, as they trampled the brush, she inspected Toulouse. She couldn't figure out what he was escaping, but she knew it was something because she felt a bond with him: an unspoken one.  
  
Finally, the brush thinned and they were in the clearing.  
  
"Race you to the pond!" she challenged.  
  
"No way. Your legs are longer!" he protested, but his pace quickening  
  
nonetheless.  
  
"On your mark get set go!" she cried in one breath, and they were off, both of their legs working wildly and their arms flailing in that free, childish way. Toulouse was a few paces in front, but she soon cleared him by way of hurdling a rock, but soon he was neck and neck again. When they both crashed on the sand, she knew she had lost.  
  
"Haha! I win!" he crowed, but it was short-lived. Satine tackled him and they rolled down in the sand eventually stopping, lying on their backs a foot from each other.  
  
"You may be fast," she retorted as her breath returned, "But I can still whip you, Henri Toulouse Lautrec!" a clump of grass flew onto her, in response to being "full-named" as they referred to it.  
  
"You may whip me, if you catch me first, Satine Isabeau DuBois!" he cackled. She huffed and rolled onto her side, propping herself on her elbow.  
  
"What do you want to do?" she asked him. He copied her position.  
  
"I want to paint Lillie Langtry in the buff."  
  
"TOULOUSE!" another air-borne clump of grass, this time from Satine.  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"I meant now, you and me."  
  
"Well."  
  
"No."  
  
"All right. How's about," he looked about, then looked at her. "TAG!" he shouted, grabbing her arm and running while screaming, "You're it!"  
  
"You weasel!" she cackled hysterically as she got to her feet and ran  
  
after him, awkwardly until she regained her footing. He was quite a runner,  
  
but she knew how to catch him. When he rounded a corner, she climbed up a tree and swung down, landing in front of him. She latched on to his arm victoriously.  
  
"Gotcha!" she shouted, but as she looked at his face, it contorted in  
  
pain and he yelped. He caught himself and stood, massaging his arm.  
  
"Oh my, I'm sorry Toulouse I didn't think I grabbed you that hard." She meekly said, her brow furrowed in worry.  
  
"Don't worry, it's nothing." He assured her, not at all convincingly.  
  
"Well, it must be something! You don't make that noise a lot!" she teased. He shook his head gravely, and his lisped voice serious.  
  
"Satine, I mean it." She frowned at his sudden sincerity.  
  
"So do I." she eyed him. "Roll up your sleeve."  
  
"No."  
  
"Please?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Toulouse, you're being stupid! Just lift up your sleeve!"  
  
"No. I'm it, so you better run."  
  
"Not until I see your arm."  
  
He tagged her. "Okay. You're it now."  
  
"Show me!" she demanded, not quite pleading but bordering.  
  
"Why? It doesn't matter to you!" he shouted, raising his voice in anger for the second time she had ever known him. The first was when she'd stole his clothes while he swam in his underclothes.  
  
"Yes it does!" she grabbed his sleeve and with all her strength, ripped it upward, popping only one button. What she saw made her eyes stretch in diameter. His Mediterranean-tinted skin was mottled purple, not from her, and the flesh was slashed with long scars. Some old, some still in the form of scabs. After a moment or two, Toulouse yanked his arm away.  
  
"There, are you happy?" he cried, tears streaming down his face. "I suppose you'd like to see my legs, and chest too? Huh? You want to see where my dad took a Bourbon bottle." His voice stuck and he ran towards the  
  
clearing. Satine stood, stunned, consumed with guilt.  
  
After a beat, she followed. She found him sitting on the edge of the clearing, crying into his hands. She stood behind him a moment, just looking. How could she have not known? Her own experience should have led her to know. She felt foolish, and slightly guilty. Up to this point, neither of them had gotten very personal. She never told him about her Papa, besides his name, not Marguerite and her own hurtful ways, and especially not about Philip. She had trouble thinking that to herself let alone saying it aloud.  
  
"Go ahead, make fun! Nine year old boy crying!" he sobbed, much unlike a nine year old boy. Satine soon felt her own tears coming but held them back. She came down beside him and put her arm around him. Despite their differing ages, she was bigger than him and her arm fit perfectly.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Toulouse." She whispered, her heart aching for him.  
  
"Why? Why." He whimpered, no longer sobbing but trying to recover. She nestled into an Indian style position.  
  
"Because I know how you feel." she stated softly. He froze, his bloodshot eyes staring at her.  
  
"How? Your Papa?"  
  
"No. My Mama. She's sick." She said, thinking how ridiculous she sounded. He wiped his nose with his sleeve and swallowed.  
  
"All the time?"  
  
"When she's not in her room. It's like," she tried to think of a similarity, "It's like that I can never do anything right. That she expects so much that I can't do. I think she hates me because I didn't die with my Papa." Toulouse was recovered and listening.  
  
"Your Papa died?"  
  
"Yeah, in a train crash. I was with him, but all I got was cut up." He looked at his hands.  
  
"I'm sorry, Satine. Were you close?" the tear that fell could not be stopped.  
  
"I think he's the only person that ever said he loved me." She murmured. She shut her eyes to stop crying, and when she opened them Toulouse was hugging her.  
  
"I love you, Satine." Everything in Satine said to reply in the like, but she couldn't. Toulouse sensed this.  
  
"It's okay." He assured her. "That's the first time I ever said that to anyone, except my mother." She smiled.  
  
"I'm sorry, I just can't. . ."  
  
"I know." He replied. He wiped his eyes again, and stood.  
  
"Wow, look at us! A bunch of babies sitting in the forest crying! Sheesh, what would Lillie Langtry think of me now!" Satine smiled. He was instilling his always-working interjection of odd humor.  
  
"Same thing she'd think any other time," she remarked, returning to her feet. "Who is that foolish little boy?" and all that filtered through the forest was their laughter, overshadowing their tears.  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Author's Note: A tiny, tiny chapter, but I'm working on it, I promise! ( I'll have something soon! Thanks for all who reviewed! Stay tuned..  
  
-K- 


	8. When We Cry

Title: "I'm Sorry, Mama"  
  
Summary: Satine's childhood . . . and now partly Toulouse's!  
  
Disclaimer: In the movie = not mine. Not in the movie = mine.  
  
Reviews: I would greatly GREATLY appreciate any, good or bad!  
  
  
  
July 25th, 1881  
  
Nice, France  
  
It wasn't the cold that made Satine pull her shawl tighter, although the wind had picked up. It wasn't even the impending rain, advertised by the slate- colored clouds that loomed overhead. As she opened her dull eyes, caked in sleepiness, she drew her knees closer to her chest. That wasn't a result of the cold either.  
  
"Damn him. . ." she said aloud, the obscenity flowing easier than she liked.  
  
The night before, from which little sleep had come, was the source of  
  
her sudden need for warmth. As she sat upon the rock in the clearing, waiting but not anxiously Toulouse's arrival, she began to tremble at the memory.  
  
In the past year and some, Satine's life had been at its best. She left early in the morning for the clearing with no questions asked, long before Marguerite arose. She returned after sunset for dinner, and then shuffled to her bedroom. Marguerite was sometimes at the table but seemed to be in some kind of catatonic state.  
  
Also, as Satine got older, she got bigger. Sa-Teeny would not have been appropriate any more. Even at eight years old, she was one and half meters  
  
tall (four feet three inches), her legs the longest feature on her. From constant swimming and running, she had acquired a physical strength she had never had. She had noticed her own growing boldness, too. She believed it was because of Toulouse's own soft, shyness that she had become the way she was. She also lost the severe need to please, and mostly kept herself out of other's ways.  
  
With all these attributes, it was hard for Marguerite to invent a reason to physically hurt her, but the occasional insults were a given.  
  
The only problem that remained was Philip. Satine was finally able to  
  
admit she feared that man, more than anything. Nightmares haunted her a lot, and she was avoiding much physical contact unconsciously. But there had never been a repeat performance of that one night. Satine dreaded it with all her heart, and when he hadn't shown for a month, two months, even three she began to think maybe he wouldn't. But on some cold, dark, nights, she knew she was a fool and soon, he would return.  
  
And last night, he had.  
  
He hadn't come in, but she knew, KNEW he had been outside the door. She had awoken sometime in the darkest of the night from the chill, and as she wrapped up in the blankets, a notoriously creaky board belched its customary CRE-OAK as a foot pressed on it. She had bolted upright, her body paralyzed and her mind retreating back to that night. As the footfalls  
  
slowly retreated, she remained awake and alert. For the rest of the night, as well.  
  
Now, here she sat, the sound of CRE-OAK whispering in her ear, a constant reminder. She felt sick, dirty every time she thought about it.  
  
Her intense reverie was interrupted when she looked below at the cul- de-sac of rocks with the pond splashing around within. In the swirling waters was a dark head. Toulouse, swimming over from his side of the river. She stood up, her arms wrapped in a self-hug, and jumped down to greet him. But as she got to sea level, she saw he wasn't swimming. He was just . . . there.  
  
"Toulouse?" she said curiously. Nothing.  
  
"Toulouse?" she asked a bit more demanding. Silence.  
  
She started down to the water, calling his name, getting more frantic.  
  
Finally, she laid the shawl aside and started to wade out to him. Why  
  
was he doing this? Surely he didn't think she'd find it funny. Toulouse had  
  
odd ways of expressing his own odd sense of humor, but fake drowning was not one of them.  
  
Satine was waist-high with water when she closed both hands on his shoulders and pushed him up so his face was out of the water.  
  
"Stop it! Toulouse!" she exclaimed, shaking him gently. This was not funny. He was unconscious. Oh god . . .  
  
"No . . . no!" she told herself as she dragged Toulouse across the buoyant water, his own buoyancy failing him. When she finally got him to the shore and laid him on his side, she was aghast. Covering his legs were scratches and lines that seemed to be from being lashed.  
  
"C'mon Toulouse . . . tell me what happened." She clapped her hand on the center of his back repeatedly as she had seen Philip do to Marguerite when she choked. Finally, he began to cough, though it was strangled, and spat out the water in his lungs. As the coughing subsided, a more despairing sound escaped him and it wasn't long before Satine saw he was crying.  
  
"Toulouse! What's wrong? What were you doing?" she demanded, lying herself beside him.  
  
"She's gone, Satine . . . he . . . she's gone!" he bemoaned.  
  
"WHO?" Satine asked, her brows furrowed. Toulouse rolled to his back and between sobs, cried, "My Mama!"  
  
"Oh no . . ." Satine said softly. Toulouse's mother, Hélène, was the kindest, gentlest, most loving person by his own description. She was small, like he, and carried a similar lisp. While his father greatly favored his two younger brothers Raul and Tomas, his mother had shown Toulouse enough love to suffice the apparent favor. She loved his art and encouraged it. Satine remembered a particular incident where he had drawn a sketch and his brothers had burned it, much to their father's preference. It was only to Hélène's chagrin, yet they had not suffered consequences because after all,  
  
Toulouse's father had not allowed it.  
  
Satine knew what it was like to loose your only life line. Right now, as she lay next to Toulouse who was hopelessly a wreck, she envisioned herself when she was smaller, in a similar position at the loss of her father. Now, he too would experience an incurable loneliness.  
  
Even though she knew what he was feeling, she could muster no words to fulfill him. When she had been in this state, no words could have helped. She imagined he felt the like, so she slipped closer and wrapped her arms around him and just let him cry. Even when the sobs became chest wracking, she said nothing. When his cries abated, he croaked,  
  
"Will you sing?" she looked in his eyes and knew he had never wanted anything so much.  
  
"Of course. . ." she replied, and the words swam through the air.  
  
Don't be ashamed to say you need a hand  
  
I understand  
  
Sometimes the night can be so dark and cold  
  
No one beside you  
  
And no one to hold  
  
When you cry  
  
I will dry your eyes  
  
When you fall  
  
I'll lift you up high  
  
You just reach  
  
For these arms of mine  
  
I promise they won't let you go  
  
And I'll make you smile  
  
When you cry . . .  
  
July 25th, 1881  
  
Nice, France  
  
As the night progressed, Satine's mind was not on her predator from the night before but on Toulouse. After she sang they laid for a long time staring at the sky. After a while, Satine began to randomly tell stories about her father, and she at the time wondered why she had. But soon, Toulouse chimed in with his own tales about his mother. Soon, they were laughing.  
  
How soothing a laugh, high or low pitched, loud or soft. How powerful it was, too. You could laugh so hard that you ended up crying. But  
  
to Satine, a real trick would be to cry so hard that you end up laughing.  
  
She tugged on her now shoulder-length hair, knotting it around the tip of her finger. The chill had abated, gradually warming, and Jean, the farmer, had predicted warmer weather. Finally. She hadn't even needed the top covers or her flannel night gown. The silky one had fulfilled the needs.  
  
At last, her mind and senses began to routinely dim as she slipped between the realities, and she felt peaceful.  
  
How long it was exactly before her eyes opened to see a figure leaning in the arch of the doorway, she was never sure. But it stirred her, and she pushed herself up to a sitting position. If she hadn't been alert, she wouldn't have known who it was. But the thin jaw, straight build, and fright- instilling eyes gave him away.  
  
"Good evening, Genevieve."  
  
Satine, loathing herself, hadn't enough strength to respond. A million harsh words died on her lips as he made his way to her bedside.  
  
"You have been waiting, mais no?" he asked, his voice like sandpaper. He ran his fingers through her hair, and began to softly speak to her as he had that night. As the memory of shame, fear, guilt, burning, and aching filled her mind, she finally said, "No."  
  
It was like a whisper.  
  
Like smoke on satin.  
  
Like the wind blowing past a window pane.  
  
But it had the power as if she had screamed at her full volume. He froze immediately.  
  
"What?"  
  
"No." she repeated, soft but firmly. He stared, astonished. She finally met his eyes with her own, copying the fierceness she had seen Marguerite instill. He actually seemed worried, rethinking this action, but then, to Satine's intense dismay, he grinned.  
  
"Whatever do you mean, chérie? No? Say no to something that you were made for?" now it was her turn to be shocked.  
  
"Made for? No, I am not . . ."  
  
"A whore?" he wailed a deep, malevolent chortle. When he recovered, her spat, "Of course you are. You were made to be one! I know what you're thinking, you tease. Don't do this . . . don't lie to yourself! You know you're only worth this . . ."  
  
August 1st, 1881  
  
Nice, France  
  
This is too much . . . Toulouse thought as he shoved the brambles and bushes out of his way, carefully tracking his steps. He had never made this journey and his sense of direction was disorienting to say the least.  
  
Fact was, he wouldn't be making this journey if it hadn't been for Satine. No one else could inspire such bravery from him. But she hadn't come for five days now to the clearing, and his pessimist inside told him to fear the worst. On the 26th, he had not gone to the clearing because it was his mother's burial. But on the 27th, 28th, 29th, 30th, and 31st, he had and she had not. He had waited all day, and nothing.  
  
So here he was, determined to rescue his only friend from what he was sure was a few steps less than purgatory.  
  
As he saw the back of the Pinchot property come into view, an interesting concept came to mind. Satine, just a friend? He used to term to describe her in a-many paintings, writings, and personal testimonies, but he knew she was more than that. She was a sister, friend, confidante, and now she would be an informed person when it came to grief. As he thought of the comparable Hell she lived in, he paused.  
  
Satine described the house many times, and now he wracked his brain to remember her details. Her room was on the second floor, an octagonal window, and had a spiral staircase for the service to use right outside the door. As he watched the back door, he saw a peasant-like woman leave and decided that must be the service entrance. So inside nearby, there must  
  
be a service staircase.  
  
Looking from side to side, he dashed across the yard and into the slightly ajar door.  
  
After a brief moment of overwhelm from the vast size and great architecture, he slipped through the kitchen and out a swinging cherry door.  
  
"Thank you, God . . ." he whispered as he was confronted, in a narrow hall, with a spiral staircase. He tore up the steps, the sound of his shoes disguised by the business of the house.  
  
When he reached the top, out of breath, he paused outside the biggest door, engraved with children playing on a French countryside, he knew he had found her room. But since luck had been shining on him this entire time, he knew the door would be locked. And it was.  
  
He looked down the hall and saw no movement. He sat in front of the door and pressed his face to the crack.  
  
"Satine?" he whispered hoarsely, even the smallest sound seeming like a thunder clap. He heard shifting, but not much.  
  
"Satine!" he called, his eyes darting about. Nothing. He looked about  
  
again. There had to be a key.  
  
Lady Luck again winked upon him as he spotted the key hanging from a crooked nail in the wall. It took a jump or two for him to reach it and remove it, and when he did he unlocked the door hastily for he knew someone's alert ears had to have noticed.  
  
Once inside the elegantly girlish decorated room, he shut the door and did a quick scan. He knew none of this customary "Mademoiselle"-esque things were Satine's. Even though she was liking the silk and pink and pony things, he just felt as if she hadn't done any of it.  
  
In the center on a raised plateau was a large canopy bed, whose sheets and blankets were in an uproar seemingly the aftermath of an earth quake. Or implosion. Toulouse wasn't sure, but as he went to the side, he saw amidst it all was Satine, her eyes closed and her mouth ajar, how she often  
  
slept. Her face was creased slightly in a painful repose, and her body curled in a tiny defensive ball.  
  
"Satine!" he insisted, jostling her lightly. His lisp was heavy on his tone now, for worry made his voice thick. She didn't stir.  
  
"Satine!" he mutedly shouted in her ear. Was she dead? What would he do if she was? Fear gripping his body and making him icy, he grabbed her both shoulders and shook her.  
  
"Please!" he cried. Finally, her eyes opened. But they weren't the same alive, vibrant, dreamy eyes. They were cold and cloudy. She was looking at him, no, she was looking through him. As his mother had . . .  
  
"Toulouse." She said simply, as if identifying him for someone else.  
  
"Yes, Satine, it's me? What's the matter with you?" He asked, sitting  
  
in front of her, calm but his alarm growing. She sat on her own, and stared  
  
into him.  
  
"What isn't?"  
  
"What does that mean? Why haven't you come to the clearing? Why are you still in bed?" a million questions pounded on his lips but her eyes  
  
stopped him.  
  
"Do you think for a minute, Toulouse, there may be more to life than our little fantasy inside that clearing? Life isn't all happiness and fortune! Why can't you see that? People are mean, dark, and not deserving of what they have!" she had to breathe for a moment, for that had come out in one breath, and Toulouse interrupted, slack-jawed.  
  
"What do you mean? People . . . sure there are bad ones but not all people. What made you say this? What HAPPENED to you?" he asked, despair flooding his voice.  
  
"I grew up! You of all people should know how unfair life is."  
  
"Yes, unfair but there are some good things. Think about the good things, Satine, think about playing hide-and-seek, think about teaching me to swim, think about singing, acting, think about falling in love . . ." Satine had been non-reactive to this spiel until the word love came.  
  
"Love? LOVE? You've got to be kidding! Your father, do you think he loves you? My mother, does she love me? My stepfather . . ." she jumped off the bed and threw the sheets back, hysterically crying and her voice to a pitch that only dogs could hear.  
  
"This is what he thinks is love!" she told him, as his eyes went down to the vast stain on the bed. It was blood, and as Toulouse looked at her, he knew it was hers.  
  
"Satine . . . what?"  
  
"THIS is the bad that people are. How can you say that they are good?" she demanded, finally seeming deflated. Defeated.  
  
Toulouse was sickened. If he had been anywhere else, he might have thrown up. But he couldn't let Satine see him do that. He had to get her back.  
  
"What about your real father?"  
  
She was immobile. "He's dead." She expressionlessly told him.  
  
"Yes, but when he lived . . . do you think he loved you?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"Yes you do, Satine. You know love exists, because you know your father loved you. You remember him. You HAVE to. The stories about your father . . . you told them with such feeling I KNOW you believed in his love." He took a breath, his heart pounding. He had to save her. She stood still, but for the first time, she dropped her head.  
  
"Ooh . . ." she moaned softly. Toulouse was soon on his feet, hugging  
  
her, and at the moment felt very old next to her, even though she was only a little smaller than him.  
  
"Love, Satine. You have to believe in it, or there's nothing." He whispered. She shook her head.  
  
"How? How, Toulouse? Your life hasn't been good, and yet you believe this? How?" she moaned.  
  
"My Mama. I'll always remember her, and the love she gave me. It existed once, and if it takes me all my life I'll find it again."  
  
Satine didn't want to leave the house, so she and Toulouse spoke for a while before she fell asleep. Not the zombie sleep Toulouse had found her in, but real sleep. He left after her breathing became even.  
  
Her final thought before drifting into blissful sleep was, "I hope he's right. . ."  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  
  
Author's Note: Another chapter! Yay! And just in case you're wondering, this will never ever ever ever turn into a romance between Satine and Toulouse. My friend read it and said it seemed that I was going that way but I'm not! I promise! And thanks to all who reviewed . . . it took me a bit to get this chapter up, and I'm sorry about the big time gaps but I'm trying! Okay, I'll stop because I'm rambling. Thanks again!  
  
I used "When You Cry" by Faith Hill without permission. Sorry! ; - ) 


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